Mallowston, 2nd Moon, 19th Day, 1624 Symfora Telos

  The sky hung heavy and grey, a pall of cloud that mirrored the death and despair clinging to the air like a shroud. Aden stood at the prow of the sloop, his jaw set, bracing himself for the grim spectacle awaiting him at Mallowston. Overhead, crows wheeled and cried, their harsh caws breaking the silence of the dawn. Below, the Strega flowed murky and brown, churning with debris—timber, rags, and worse—that swirled in its eddies. Along the riverbanks, the dead drifted aimlessly, bobbing in the shallows like grotesque buoys. Their bloated forms twisted in the current, faces locked in rictuses of agony, limbs frozen in unnatural contortions.

  The stench hit like a blow. A thick, cloying sweetness of rot mingled with the sharp tang of decay, carried on the faint breeze. As the sloop glided past a dense cluster of corpses, Aden grimaced, his hand tightening on the rail. Flies buzzed in black clouds over the dead, their droning hum a dirge for the slaughter. The once placid waterway was now a festering graveyard, where the dead found no rest and the living no respite.

  A soft touch at his back drew Aden’s attention. He turned to see Vaiu, the Matriarch, her veiled face unreadable but her presence steadying nonetheless.

  "He will be alright," Aden murmured, almost to himself, his eyes still fixed on the grim water.

  Vaiu said nothing, merely inclined her head in silent support. Behind her stood the queen and princess, also veiled, their expressions obscured. A fourth veiled woman—a priestess most likely—lingered in the background. The odd tableau—one hooded man hunched in grim contemplation, surrounded by veiled women who watched him with what could only be described as sympathy—might have seemed almost queer, were the air not so thick with death.

  "Isn't that the Lord Hera’s crest?" Princess Iris said suddenly, staring at one of the battered brigs, this one beached on the east-facing side of the riverbank.

  Aden followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing. It was then he truly noticed it: the Dandelion. Her hull was pocked with the black scars of cannon fire, her rigging torn and dangling like entrails. Not far beyond lay another vessel, even more grievously wounded. Its hull was riddled with holes, its mast entirely gone. The name eluded him—Endearment? Endeavour? Enlightenment? Ancestors knew, but Aden cared not to puzzle it out. Both wrecks were alive with activity, men swarming like ants as they worked to patch holes and salvage what they could. Fishing boats bobbed nearby, their crews hauling valuable flotsam from the wreckage.

  On the northern shore, a sprawling encampment had sprung up, tents stretching haphazardly across the riverbank. Campfires burned low, sending faint trails of smoke curling into the morning air. Whatever force had descended upon Mallowston was firmly entrenched.

  “Harbor ahoy!” the helmsman called from the quarterdeck, his voice carrying over the whispering tide.

  Aden’s eyes snapped forward to the distant silhouette of Mallowston Harbour. Without a word, he strode toward the fo'c'sle, gripping a bundle of rigging to hoist himself onto the forepeak. Vaiu’s protests rose behind him, sharp as the cries of the crows.

  “Careful, you lousy oaf!” she hissed, glaring daggers at him.

  The sloop’s crew worked with practiced efficiency, guiding the vessel toward the dock. As soon as the hull kissed the pier, Aden leapt ashore, his boots thudding heavily against the timbers. Behind him, the veiled women descended more cautiously, their movements slowed by the awkward walk down the rickety gangplank.

  “What’s going on here?” Aden barked, his tone sharp as he grabbed the arm of a passing ship’s boy. The lad couldn’t have been more than fourteen, and his wide eyes went wider still as Aden’s grip tightened. “Speak!”

  The boy stammered, trying to twist free, but Aden’s hand was iron. The child’s panic drew the attention of a nearby stevedore—a burly, broad-shouldered man with a face like weathered oak.

  “Are we gonna be havin’ trouble, good ser?” the barrel of a man called out, his tone slow but heavy with warning as he set down a box and leveled a reproachful gaze at the Lord.

  "Shit," Vaiu muttered under her breath, her voice barely audible over the rising tension. The labourer’s loud challenge to Aden hung in the air like a gauntlet thrown. Her eyes darted to Aden, and her heart sank at the sight of his face—a mask of eerie calm that only the unwise mistook for restraint. "Shit," she whispered again, gathering the hem of her dress to quicken her steps. He is not pleased…

  "Please, don't mind my husband!" Vaiu called out, her voice bright with forced cheer as she closed the distance between them, the veiled women trailing close behind her. She reached Aden’s side and placed a firm hand on his outstretched arm, her fingers pressing just enough to command his attention. "Relax, my love," she said softly, her words meant for his ears alone. Her dark eyes met his, unwavering despite the height that forced her to look up.

  For a moment, the lord did not move, his gaze fixed on hers like a beast deciding whether to yield or roar. Then, with a grunt, he released the boy. The lad stumbled back, clutching his arm as he darted behind the stevedore.

  Vaiu exhaled, relief flooding her features. She turned to the labourer, her expression contrite but composed. "Please forgive his outburst," she said, her tone conciliatory but firm. "My husband is worried about some valuable goods we left in town over the winter. The sight of the damaged ships downstream alarmed him. Could you tell us what’s happened here?"

  The stevedore crossed his arms, his stern gaze lingering on Aden even as he answered Vaiu. "Aye, I can tell you this much—mind your temper with the harbour boys. Folks round here don’t take kindly to outsiders roughing up the young ones. But as for the ships, there’s no need to fret, my lady," he said, his voice taking on a more casual cadence. "It’s just the young lord from Faywyn and the Hera family at each other’s throats again. A battle for the legends, that one. Well," he paused, scratching his beard, "battle might not be the right word this time. The sly Lord gave Lord Josh a thorough drubbing before he even set foot on dry land. Poor sod didn’t stand even a chance."

  "A drubbing?" Aden asked, his brow furrowing as he spoke for the first time since releasing the boy.

  "Aye," the man replied, some of his sternness fading as he addressed the duke directly. "I saw it all from the hills. The young lord's cannons roared, and Lord Josh's fleet turned tail to flee. But the young lord's brigs ran them aground, then blasted them to pieces before boarding. Word is Lord Josh himself fled into the woods."

  "Ambushed, then," Aden clarified.

  "Aye," the stevedore confirmed with a nod. "The earl’s been stockpiling weapons and men since before the first snow. Cunning bastard, that one. They call him the Bloody Gryphon around these parts, but I’d say he’s more of a bloody fox."

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  Iris had never seen Lord Aden so visibly shaken. To her, he had always been the epitome of composure—a man whose stoicism could weather the worst storms. Yet now, as they ascended the winding path to Mallowston Fort, his demeanour betrayed a crack in that iron facade. Their horses, finally freed from the cramped hold of the sloop, moved at an uneasy pace. Aden’s usually stern countenance had grown graver with every step closer to the imposing walls ahead. A heavy silence blanketed them, the air thick with foreboding.

  The tales whispered by the townsfolk still rang in Iris’s ears—stories of Levi’s swift conquest of the fort overnight, with half as many men as the defenders. She had scoffed at such claims at first, dismissing them as idle exaggerations. Yet as her gaze swept over the blackened walls and the crumbled battlements, she found herself doubting her own disbelief. How could such a mighty stronghold have fallen at all, let alone so quickly? If the stories held even a kernel of truth, then this Levi was more than merely a skilled tactician—he was a terrifying force, a man who deserved the dark moniker that seemed to now follow him: the Bloody Gryphon.

  As they drew nearer, the evidence of the battle became unavoidable. Ghastly scorch marks marred the fort’s walls, jagged and sprawling like the claw marks of some monstrous beast. Iris's stomach twisted at the sight. Gone was the vague, romantic notion of the young lord she had once entertained—an effeminate figure woven from the threads of idle gossip and girlish curiosity. In its place stood the shadow of a cunning despot, ruthless and calculated.

  “Halt!” a guard bellowed from the gate, stepping forward with spear in hand. His wariness was plain in the tightness of his grip and the slight tremor in his voice. Another guard stood close behind him, equally tense, their movements rigid and rehearsed. From above, the glint of crossbows caught Iris’s eye—two sentries peering down with arrows nocked, their gazes locked on Aden and his small party. That they could see only a lone man and four women did little to ease their suspicion.

  “I seek an audience with your lord!” Aden called, his voice sharp as steel. He swung down from his horse, his boots crunching against the gravel as he strode forward. His commanding presence seemed to cow the guards, but they held their ground.

  A knight appeared on the wall above, his attire marking him as a man of rank. He leaned forward to peer at the group, his face shadowed by the angle of the sun.

  “Carter!” Aden bellowed as soon as he recognized him. “Come open these gates for me!”

  As the grand doors of the keep’s main hall creaked open, Iris’s gaze fell upon the acting Lord of Faywyn, seated with unsettling ease at the far end of a long refectory table. The young man—Levi von Grifenburg—was nothing like she expected. His features were sharp, almost delicate, illuminated faintly by the weak sunlight glancing off the unpolished stone floor. Beneath his thin silken garments, shaded bulges hinted at the lean contours of his frame. Tousled inky curls framed a face too beautiful to belong to a butcher, yet his eyes—icy blue-green and devoid of innocence—told a different tale. They gleamed with frigid cunning, a predator’s gaze behind the crude curve of a smile.

  At his feet knelt a battered man, hands bound behind his back, still clad in mail and gambeson. A knight, perhaps, though his stooped posture and bloodied face robbed him of any dignity. Levi’s fingers tapped idly on the table, as though this grim tableau was but an idle diversion.

  Iris had braced herself for some measure of tension, but the stand-off that unfolded between the two von Grifenburgs caught her unprepared.

  “You’re back,” Levi said, his tone as cold as the air in the hall. He sniffed, his expression one of faint disinterest. “Took you long enough.”

  Before Iris could fully grasp the words, Lord Aden moved. One moment the grizzled man stood beside her, the next he was across the hall, his hand fisted in Levi’s collar, a dagger pressed against his throat. “Where is my son?” Aden growled, his voice low and venomous.

  Iris froze, bewildered. Her gaze flicked between father and son, searching for answers. There was no mistaking the familial resemblance between them—Levi’s face bore echoes of Aden’s—but the accusation left her reeling.

  The hall fell silent, save for the faint scrape of Levi’s chair as it tipped backward under Aden’s grip. Then came a click, sharp and deliberate. Iris’s breath caught as she saw Levi raise an odd contraption—small, metal, and menacing—to press it against the duke’s cuirass. A handgonne, she realized belatedly, its design unfamiliar but unmistakable.

  “Has the king’s war finally addled your wits, Father?” Levi asked softly, his words dripping with contempt.

  “You are not my son,” Aden hissed, his voice low but trembling with suppressed rage. His gaze shifted to Vaiu, standing to the side with a veil drawn over her face. “Is this one of your games, Matriarch? Another one of your Nameless masquerading as my kin?”

  Vaiu’s voice was careful, measured. “I would not do such a thing to you, Aden.”

  Ignoring her, the angered lord turned back to Levi, his hand shifting to claw at the younger man’s face, as if he might peel away a mask. Levi didn’t flinch, though his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Let go of me, Aden,” he said, his tone settling into a dreadful calm.

  Aden hesitated, then released him, stepping back, his expression a rictus of confusion. Levi straightened his rumpled clothing, brushing off invisible dust as though nothing had happened.

  “I am sorry, Paul,” Levi said, addressing the bound knight at his feet. His handgonne rose, its barrel aimed squarely at the man’s head. “You were a pleasant conversationalist. But you’ve seen too much, heard too much. Send my regards to Ser Dywn, should you meet him in the beyond.”

  The explosion of fire and smoke filled the hall, the sharp crack reverberating against the stone walls. When the smoke cleared, the knight’s head was gone, replaced by a mangled stump dripping gore onto the floor. Iris stumbled back, one hand over her mouth, fighting the bile that rose in her throat.

  “Why?” Ser Carter asked, stepping forward to place himself between Levi and the rest of the group. His voice trembled with disbelief.

  “Why not?” Levi replied, his gaze steady and unflinching. “Anyone with half a brain and an ear for rumours would know who the veiled women behind my Lord-Father are. A deposed queen, a crown princess—delicate secrets carried into the lion’s den. Ser Paul was cunning, yes, but cowardly. Exactly the wrong man to possess such knowledge. He posed a risk I could not allow. Need I remind you what that risk is, Ser Carter?”

  Silence fell, heavy and oppressive. Levi sniffed, breaking the stillness. “I thought as much. Imagine the chaos if word reached the Hertaleans—or worse. Tell me,” he continued, turning his gaze to Lady Vaiu, “have you advertised yourselves to the entire town?”

  Vaiu answered slowly, her tone measured. “We were careful.”

  “For your sake, I hope so,” Levi said, his voice a low drawl. “Inform the men that any caught spreading rumours of the duke’s arrival will spend two months in the pillory on stale bread and vinegar. And get someone to clean this mess before the tapestry is ruined.” He gestured to the corpse, then turned his gaze to Vaiu, his lips curling into a faint smile. “You’ve come far. Try to stay out of sight. I’d hate to send you all back to the Hertaleans myself.”

  Iris felt the blood drain from her face. “What are you insinuating, boy?” Aden demanded, taking a threatening step forward.

  Levi didn’t flinch. His smile grew wider, colder. “Unlike you, Father, I have no intention of risking my well-being, what's left of my family, or the people of Faywyn in a vain attempt to protect your beloved king. … Have you no shame at all? The gall of you, to come here and attempt to saddle me with a matter this ruinous after the numerous crimes your beloved Sean committed against us! Sentiment alone, Father, is all that prevents me from simply putting you all to the blade and resolving this debt once and for all! I warn you now, do not test my patience.”

  The young lord turned his attention then to Iris and the others, waving a hand irritably. “Unveil yourselves. Which of you are the queen and princess?”

  Iris obeyed without hesitation, hurriedly taking off her veil, not out of fear, she convinced herself. Her mother, on the other hand, hesitated, then followed suit, her movements deliberate and calm.

  “And you two?” Levi asked, his gaze snapping to Vaiu and her assistant.

  Vaiu raised her veil, meeting Levi’s eyes evenly. “I am Vaiu of House sahel Arundel, Matriarch of the Creed of the Twins. It is a pleasure to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances.”

  Levi’s expression remained inscrutable. “Ser Carter will show you to the guest quarters. We will speak later. For now, I have other matters to attend to.”

  “Son, wait!” Aden called after him as Levi turned to leave.

  Levi paused, his back still to his father. “Your son is dead, Aden” he said, his voice cutting through the air like a blade as he strode off. “Sean killed him. I am all that’s left.”